by Eric Paul Shaffer
xxxxx I hear the rain stop, and from the eaves begins
the erratic whisper that sparks the leaves below, drop
xxxxx by drop. Dogs released into the yards bark
at the fences, and children play in the street, splashing
xxxxx through puddles already disappearing.
A car crackles through gravel, turns into the drive,
xxxxx clicks and whirs, and the engine stops.
One I love is home. Leaves drip beyond the glass,
xxxxx and the light returns through tears
in the clouds. The door opens.
Eric Paul Shaffer is author of nine poetry volumes, including Free Speech; Green Leaves; Even Further West; A Million-Dollar Bill; Lāhaina Noon; and Portable Planet; and his tenth book of poems Second Nature will appear in 2026. More than 650 of his poems are published in reviews in America and eleven other countries. Shaffer lives on Oʻahu.
Hawaii Pacific Review 